The year must be 1982. I am ten, eleven years old. We are in an after-dinner conversation in the house of my uncle Enrique. At some point my dad says:

“We need to find an art teacher for Pablo. He has abilities.”

My uncle proposes, with great patriarchal self- assurance:

“we should take him with Cuevas”.

They all talk as if I wasn’t sitting at the table.

“With José Luis Cuevas?” my mom asks.

“Yes, with José Luis. Let’s take him with Cuevas.”

My aunt Elena, who works at Radio Universidad organizing its public programs, intervenes.

“I will take him. José Luis comes to Radio all the time. I will introduce him,, I will tell him, he is so nice, I am sure he will gladly accept. I’ll take him.”

“With Cuevas?” my mom says again, still incredulous.

“Take him with Cuevas.”

***

A few weeks later we are at Radio Universidad, at a reception outside of the Julián Carrillo Auditorium, after the presentation of a tribute to Octavio Paz where they played a piece by Mario Lavista. The event is well attended and I am with my aunt, who as usual is the organizer, as usual is very elegantly dressed and as usual is quite nervous, trying to make sure that all is going well. There are all sorts of luminaries at the reception: Paz himself with Marie Jo, Ramón Xirau, Rubén Bonifaz Nuño. Tomás Mojarro is in a corner talking to some people, quoting the Ecclesiastes.

At some point Cuevas appears, smiling, with his eternal leather bracelets. He has long hair, seventies-era sideburns (still), and a vest like those still work by Oscar Chávez. I am impressed by his presence and energy. Immediately, several people approach and surround him.

My aunt grabs me from the shoulder and pushes me toward him. Cuevas is with his back to us, very involved talking with someone else. My aunt keeps me grabbed from the shoulder and we are patiently waiting for him to notice us. I am there, reluctant, dying of embarrassment.

Finally Cuevas turns around, but he doesn’t see the short kid standing in front of him.

“José Luis, I want to introduce you to..”

At that moment, Cuevas notices someone right behind my aunt. He smiles, raises his arms and walks directly in front of us to embrace those people. I stay there, standing with my aunt on the side, ridiculously waiting.

Finally my aunt, hiding her embarrassment, says: “Maybe its better if I introduce you to him a bit later. He is very busy now.”

My aunt passed away in 1987, the year in which I went to San Carlos to study art. Then I went on to Chicago in 1989.